EROTIC SHORTS

TW: Cheating.

I watched my two best friends giggling, Hailey telling us a story about her night of sexcapades with her boyfriend of the month, Brock. Becca was just giggling, she never told sex stories, but then again she was pretty vanilla and happily married.

"No seriously he thought smacking me across the face with his dick during a blow job would turn me on, like dude, no girl wants to be smacked in the face with a dick. He's maybe average at most..." she goes on. I check my phone zoning out. I often did at our lunches. I loved my friends but the excited zest for life was missing these days. I used to have better stories than Hailey.

Now I was in a committed relationship with Justin. He was OK. At twenty-five I felt I needed something more stable. Real. The problem was after the last four years if dating 'stable guys' I realized that was synonymous to boring, average, and unpleasing.

Justin texts me again, he was going out and mentioned how nice it'd be to come home to cooked dinner and a clean house. I personally thought that'd be nice too, not that he'd ever do that for me. He was very exist and traditional. Though those beliefs hadn't showed up until about a month ago.

We'd now been dating roughly six months. It seemed the last month his mask was slipping. He'd also dropped hints after we'd attended his best friends wedding that for me to get a ring- a ring I never even mentioned or brought up!- Id have to agree to close my studio and be willing to get pregnant on the honeymoon and be a stay at home mom for our kids.

"Im beaking up with Justin," I cut Hailey off. Both of them whip their heads towards me.

"You owe me fifty," Becca tells Hailey and I glare.

"She hasn't yet," Hailey huffs annoyed.

"Seriously," I glare at my friends.

"What, we all know you have a restless soul," Hailey says kindly.

"More like a restless cunt," Becca barks.

I roll my eyes. Neither were right.

"So what excuse now," Becca asks curiously.

"It just fizzled out and he is doing the six month red flag race, and also the sex is below average at best." I grumble.

"What red flags?" Hailey asks concerned.

"Just normal six month ones, starts planning a future that I don't agree with or want, starts trying to bargain my freedom with his wants, starts getting sloppy and selfish in bed." I shrug.

Hailey frowns. "So when's moving day? I have been working doubles at the hospital so I need advanced notice." Becca asks quickly.

"I don't know. I still have to actually break up with him. And then sort out the apartment." I admit frowning. We'd moved in together two months ago when I was hesitant about renewing my lease in my old crappy building and he convinced me he was dead serious about me being his person so moving in together would be a no brainer.

Now it was a problem. This was the problem, I was so convinced since I'd broken up with my only long-term boyfriend in college that I needed to move onto the next stages in life, all the things he didn't want. Living together. Marriage. Kids. He made it clear he didn't feel the need to check those boxes, so we agreed to break up and since then I almost felt like I had to check those boxes as quickly as possible to spite him and my broken heart.

Two days later I sat in my studio. I was a business owner, it was disappointing. While everyone was proud, I had wanted to be an artist, that was why I spent a small fortune to go to college, for art! But my studio was now about fostering others, helping them excel in creativity, or helping people just tap into that side of themselves.

I hadn't produced shit myself in years. I had a problem that my inspiration was tied to my vagina. Great sex inspired me. Inspired my best work. But a lackluster sex life killed all my artistic talent. So the last year and a half years I've been building and running a business while going through a string of disappointing men with seemingly no knowledge of the female anatomy.

It was yet another reason I had to break up with Justin. Six months, his flaws were turning into red flags and I still hadn't had a single orgasm. I moved around the studio in deep thought. Tonight was a beginners paint and play. It was Becca's idea. She said finding fun original date ideas for adults was hard and we worked it out until we came to this idea.

It was popular with couples. They came and could paint each other, or for the more modest couples, we offered a white shirt. There was a small studio to the side of the room where they could take photos of each other and id take a photo of them together and they'd get a print to take home since the art washed off.

I still had an hour until the class and my phone vibrated for the fifth time. The more I pulled back from Justin the more he dug in. I had been avoiding him for a bit now. Since his comments about marriage and his expectations. I wouldn't marry him, I wasn't that desperate to check the boxes after all.

One of the hardest pills to swallow was I was finding that the boxes I desperately wanted to talk about checking off with Chris, my college love, I didn't seem nearly as eager to check with any man since. I set each station with the paint and supplies needed and then get the white shirts out and sit a variety of sizes stacked to the side on a table if anyone chose modesty. It wasn't something people often chose though. Many gleefully stripped their shirt and sometimes pants. Many girls wore bikinis under clothes in preparation for having their body painted. Men often tended toward black boxers or briefs.

I unlock the front door with ten minutes to spare. There are always early birds. I make it back through the areas set for each couple, seven couples booked for tonight. Not bad for a Friday in August. They'd each have an area, blocked to some degree by canvas' and props to work, creating an intimate space to paint their partner's body. The bell rings and a sweet girl walks in. She's alone.

"Hey, I'm early, perpetual problem," she chuckles. She's a pretty woman, long blond hair curled to perfection, brown eyes, pretty makeup. "My boyfriend is meeting me here."

"It's fine, pick a spot and we'll wait for everyone to come in." I tell her with a reassuring smile.

Others trail in slowly, but I don't miss her continuously checking her watch and phone. I frown, hoping she's not stood up. If she is, I'd do my best to still make her have a great time. "Ok everyone," I start getting their attention. "We have plain white shirts if you're uncomfortable with stripping down." I gesture to the shirts. "If you're ready you can strip down to your underwear and we can get started, I have a gorgeous model here to help set a great example," I nod to the girl still waiting.

She gives me a small, relieved smile and comes to the front. "Do you want a shirt or are you comfortable stripping?" I give her a soft smile. She takes off her shirt showing a pretty white bikini top.

"Can I actually paint you?" She asks softly. I nod. "I'm Sophie, by the way."

"Cyanne," I tell her, then to the class, "I put out some murals to use as inspiration but there is no right or wrong answer, just do what you like and enjoy the company and touch of your partner," I wink and strip my shirt. I wasn't prepared for this and wear a black lace bra that cups my D cups well and looks very sexy. "Where would you like to start?" I ask her with a smile.

She gestures for me to lay on the yoga mat on the floor, and I do. She starts at my chest with a blue color. "I can't believe he stood me up. I know he's work obsessed, but he's never stood me up before," she rants.

"How long have you been dating?" I ask as she changes the color to orange.

"This is only the third date, but I really like him. He's so amazing." She gushes and I nod. Not so amazing if he stood her up. "He's just a work-a-holoic. But no one's perfect." She seems more like she's talking to herself now. She trails off and silence settles. I look around the room and most couples are chatting and painting, happy with the environment.

A few minutes later she speaks up again, "Thank you for doing this, I think you might actually be a prettier model than him," She giggles. "I'd kill for your boobs." I laugh.

"Being stood up sucks. He's an idiot, you're so pretty," I tell her truthfully.

"Thanks, I literally got off wok and booked it here," she admits.

"Where do you work?" I ask to keep conversation going while I look around.

"I'm a therapist," she admits with a sheepish grin.

"Let's trade skills," I laugh, "I comp you your visits here, and you act as my therapist and explain why I can't find a decent guy to date." She bursts out laughing.

"I seem to have the same problem. Those who can't do teach, same applies to therapists. I suck at my own personal relationships. I chose to become borderline obsessed with a work-a-holic who admits he hasn't held one meaningful relationship since college." She gives a self-depreciating smile.

"Well, I think we both need to hold ourselves to higher standards. We deserve better." I tell her.

"We do, and I'm done. My turn." She tells me setting the brush down. I look in the small mirror I set at each station. I beautiful mandala is painted on my chest. An array of colors and shapes. It's very good.

"Someone is more than a beginner," I tease.

"I only took one art class in college." She laughs and I gesture for her to sit. She gets started and my timer goes off.

"Thirty more minutes." I tell the class. "So where'd you meet this guy?"

"He is a patient at the office." I give her a look, I know that's not regulation. "Oh no, not my patient. He sees another therapist. He's a little socially awkward." She smiles. She really had it bad.

We chat more about dates and guys and relationships as I paint her. When my next timer goes off, I stop. "Ok, let's finish up and head to the studio," I tell everyone, and people rush to finish what their working on. "Come on, lets head to the studio," I tell her dropping the brush. We walk over and I pose her and take her photo and then we pose together, displaying our work and I take a photo of the two of us and print them both for her.

Other couples come up and I pose them and take their photos before printing and giving them each a copy. Somewhere in the mess of it all a bell chimes and I keep going. "Jesus Cyanne, for fuck's sake," I freeze and feel a jacket drop over my shoulders. I can't seem to restart, my brain is short circuiting. The voice, tone, smell, it all calls to me. He can't be here. I moved to the other side of the city; avoid anything I knew he liked. Gone to further lengths than I'd admit out loud to avoid this ever happening.